Swan Song (Book Three of the Icarus Trilogy) (2 page)

“Shhh, shhh, you’re alright.  You’re alright, now.  Douglas, you’re fine,” the gentle, masculine voice said as the powerful hands started to ease up from the cripple’s shoulders.  Douglas gathered his senses and breathed in deeply, uneasy at the comfort that came with freedom.

“Where.... Where am I?” he asked to the darkness.  The gentle voice came again, accompanied by a soft chuckle.

“You’re at the heart of the resistance, Doug.  I know you can’t see it and I’m sorry for that, but you’re safe.  After two months you’re finally safe.  Well,” the gentle voice said in a slight tone of exasperation, “you’re as safe as can be in these times.”  Douglas shook his head slightly and tried to sit up.  He only made it halfway up before his muscles gave out on him, but the gentle man placed his hands behind Douglas’ back and eased him to an upright position.

“Who are you?” Douglas asked quietly.  He had thought at first that it might have been Urlov or Kaspar, but the voice was distinct, different from anything he had ever heard.  This wasn’t just some random soldier.  The gentle man chuckled again and sighed.  Douglas could feel the strong hand come to rest on his thigh.

“Well, you’ve heard of me.  I go by Thomas around here, but out there they know me by-”

“Atlas.” Douglas said.  He had absolutely no doubt.  He didn’t know why the leader of the Eris Freedom Initiative was sitting next to him; there was no reason for it at all.  But for some reason Douglas knew that one of the most powerful men in the world had come to wake him up.  The former announcer heard a soft chuckle by his side.

“Don’t let anybody tell you that you’re not bright, Doug.  I’m kinda curious how you knew,” the gentle man said.  Douglas shook uncontrollably and shrugged, the small action setting off a cascade of aches and pains.

“I don’t.... I don’t know.  Just a feeling, I guess.  Why.... Why did you come here?” Douglas asked, his voice filled with fear.  He didn’t know why such an important figure would bother to waste his time on a broken man.  Douglas could feel the gentle hand massaging the thigh, unintentionally falling into grooves made by Edwards’ blade.

“I respect you a great deal, Douglas.  You showed more courage than most men have had to show their entire lifetimes.  You took on one of the most dangerous assignments I’ve ever had to give, with no incentive or reward but pain and death.  And from what we’ve been able to see from the records, you took on even more, pretending to be the ringleader, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to give up any information.  When I heard.... when I heard what you’d done for us, Doug.  Goddamnit....” the gentle voice trailed off, confusing the broken revolutionary.  Douglas moved his maimed hand, missing his ring finger, and covered the rough hand covering his thigh.

“I don’t know if I can ever repay you, Doug.  You gave up everything; you suffered so much.  I had to greet you personally.  I had to let you know that I look up to you, really,” Atlas said at Douglas’ side.  The speech and the sentiment were enough to drive the cripple to tears; when he lowered his head he could feel the air licking at the tear tracks forming on his face.

“You can’t....”

“I do,” Atlas interrupted, his gentle voice becoming declarative in half a moment.  “And I’ll do everything I can to make it all worth it, Doug.  Everything I can.  Do you mind if I lift you for just a second?” the gentle voice asked.  Douglas nodded in his confusion, only half-comprehending what the man was saying.  He was well within his own head as the leader of the revolution placed his arms underneath Douglas’ shoulders and knees, carrying the announcer as he walked.

Douglas had no idea what Thomas was doing, but soon enough the crippled man was lowered into a seat and Atlas removed his arms.  While his right leg was far too short, his left was supported and Douglas wrapped his three remaining toes around the edge of the plastic surface.  He set his hands into his lap and then felt himself moving.

“Alright, Doug.  I’m gonna show you around the base.  I know you can’t.... but you can at least get a sense of distance.  Let you know more about your new home,” Atlas said as he pushed against the back of Douglas’ wheelchair.

Yet again, Douglas wished he had his eyes back, but this wasn’t so horrible.  He felt like he had a new lease on life.  He knew that he didn’t have to fear new cigarette burns or more blades tearing him apart.  He didn’t have to worry about not being able to breathe and his wrists bleeding from the chafing.

He was home.

-

The old man entered into the room to find Jenkins looking over plans, his back to the entrance.  Carver had seen his young friend like this far too many times in the last two months.  He knew that the messiah figure didn’t sleep like he was supposed to; he knew that Ryan had difficulty doing anything not related to the job.

Carver understood the boy’s pain to an extent; he understood that kind of guilt.

“Shut the door, John, you’re letting in a draft,” Jenkins said, not bothering to turn or to look away from the blueprints spread out on his desk.  The old Crow humored the boy in front of him and let the door swing back closed.  He turned and walked slowly over to the desk to see what interested his young compatriot so much.  When he reached the boy’s side, he scanned the sheets and found nothing of particular interest.

“You need to stop sometimes, you know that?” Carver stated, his gruff voice lending more credit to the statement.  He watched the young, brown-haired man out of the corner of his eye and could see the stress eating away at him.  Ryan looked about ten years older than he had been on Eris.  Carver couldn’t really say anything, the salt in his own hair had completely taken over, but he wished so much better for the young man by his side.  It was all Jonathon ever wished.
            “Why bother?” Ryan asked, the fatigue ever-present in his voice.  He looked at the veteran out of the corner of his eye and Carver couldn’t help but feel sympathetic.  He knew why the kid would never stop; he knew what the poor boy was avenging.

“You’re not going to do anyone any good if you don’t have your wits about you,” Carver said, his voice low and somber, filled with an affection that the veteran didn’t even notice.  Ryan gave a weary laugh at that before shaking his head and rising to his full height.  He turned to face his mentor and gave a sad smile.

“I’ll be fine, John.  Really.  It’s just the usual stuff,” Ryan said, doing what he could to placate the old man in front of him.  Carver grunted at that and put his back to the blueprints before responding.

“That’s what I’m afraid of, kid.  I know it’s getting to you,” he grumbled.  Ryan just shrugged it off and walked towards the glass of water he had left on the table in the middle of the room.  He lifted it and shook his head, staring into the disturbed ripples playing in the glass.

“Why shouldn’t it?  It’s war, Carver.  We have to play our part,” Jenkins said as he raised the glass to his lips.  He let the liquid pass into his mouth and swished it around for a moment, trying to rid himself of the sour taste that had come from God-knows-where, and swallowed.  He looked over at his comrade and breathed in deeply.  “We owe it to them.”

“Kid,” Carver said, remembering all of the Crows that they had left back on Eris.  “We’re all hurting, you know that.  But we can’t kill ourselves and expect to win this thing.  Every once in a while we gotta take a break,” Carver said, walking towards the small table, but he stopped mid-step when he heard the loud impact of the glass against wood.

“We stop when we’re done, John!  We stop when Roberts and Feldman and.... and all the others,” Jenkins said, his voice hesitating on the one person who mattered most, “when we make sure that they didn’t give themselves for nothing.  If you’re just gonna repeat the same old song, Carver, you can just leave.”

Carver watched the pain dance across Ryan’s face, knowing exactly what the boy really wanted to say.  The old Crow backed off towards the blueprints and supported himself against the edge of the desk.

“Some other time, then.  But that’s not why I’m here,” Carver said, waiting for Jenkins to recover himself.  It wasn’t long; months of helping lead a resistance had given Ryan plenty of practice in repressing his feelings.

“Then why, John?  What’s going on?”

“I wanted to let you know that the field op was a success.  They raided the rehabilitation center in Nevada and found a bunch of resistance prisoners.  Some we knew about; some we didn’t,” Carver said as he folded his arms.  Jenkins feigned interest as he lifted the water pitcher to refill his empty glass.  He picked it up and took another gulp of water before looking Carver in the eye.

“Really?  Who’d we pick up?” the young resistance leader asked, sniffing from the ever-present dust in their bunker.  Carver cleared his throat and took a deep breath before continuing.

“A few raid leaders.  Theroux, Pulman and Nemitz were recovered.  Theroux’s missing a few fingers and Pulman and Nemitz are missing their front teeth, but mostly intact.  They’ll be ready to fight and hold their grudges in no time,” Carver said, grateful for the development.  Pulman had been a Wolverine, but the other two had been civilians.  It was nice to see that the untrained revolutionaries could hold their own.

“Yeah, well we knew about Pulman and Theroux.  Nemitz is a nice catch, but not much worth mentioning,” Jenkins said as he paced the room.  Carver grunted at that, which prompted the young revolutionary to look over.  The look of disapproval on Carver’s face was enough to shame the messiah figure.

“Don’t you fucking dare trivialize a life, boy.  You start thinking in value and statistics and I’ll beat the pragmatism out of you,” Carver threatened.  Jenkins sniffed and breathed out slowly.  He nodded, realizing his own mistake, and motioned for the veteran to continue.

“There were a couple of civilians they rescued.  Eric Jones and Doug Finnegan,” Carver said, watching as the realization dawned on the young revolutionary.

“The
War World
guys?” Ryan asked in his confusion.  “I thought they’d be dead by now.”

“So did everybody else.  It’s a pretty nice surprise,” Carver stated, but he could see the news was even more welcome to the young messiah.  It had been weeks since he had seen the kid smile.

“Well, shit, how are they?  When did they get here?  Where are they?” Jenkins asked, his depression and sadness forgotten. 

“Jones is fine; they were trying to get him to do another broadcast, so they didn’t really rough him up.  Far as I know he’s getting sloshed upstairs,” Carver said with a slight smile before turning his gaze back to his eager comrade.  The smile disappeared as he remembered the next bit of news.  “Finnegan....”

“What?” Jenkins asked, the severe tone and expression returning.  Carver had to remind himself that Ryan was only in his mid-twenties.

“They tore him up real bad.  Both eyes are gone, right leg’s gone.  Fingers and toes missing.  When he came in he was all sliced up and the bastard who did it to him was using him as an ashtray.  Tom’s with him now,” Carver said, lowering his gaze to the floor.  He heard his comrade rustling around and saw him starting towards the door.  “Where are you....”

“You kidding, John?  I gotta go see him,” Jenkins said, pausing at the doorway.

“But....” Carver started, but Jenkins gave him a look that instantly shamed the old man.

“You’re coming, too, John.  He deserves a hero’s welcome,” Jenkins commanded, his brain flooding with images of Roberts twisted in pain.  Carver nodded at the statement and walked behind the young Crow; he couldn’t argue with that sentiment.

As they walked through the underground bunker that was now their home, Carver gave up his optimism.  It was hard to feel good about anything when surrounded by walls of dirt and the absence of natural light.

He was almost glad that Finnegan wouldn’t be able to see it.

-

When the messiah figure burst into the control room he was shocked by what he saw sitting in the wheelchair.  He could only guess at what Douglas Finnegan used to look like; what he saw was suited more to an autopsy table.  Fortunately and unfortunately, however, Ryan had become used to gruesome sights.  He recovered quickly and waited for Thomas to make the introduction.

“Douglas, I have an important visitor for you.  I’d like you to meet Ryan Jenkins,” Atlas said from behind the chair.  Jenkins looked the revolutionary leader over and gave him a nod.  Thomas was an average looking man, more suited to a library than a battlefield.  The dark brown hair was graying at the temples and the glasses framing his face seemed to be decades old; thin things with silver frames.  The light blue shirt caked with dust was buttoned up until the last three buttons, exposing the man’s pale chest.  But none of this meant anything when compared to the man’s hazel eyes.  They were always gentle; his gaze never hard.  He was the kind of teacher Jenkins had always wished for back when he was growing up.